_Dum._ Take back the foul reproach, unmanner'd railer! Nor urge my rage too far, lest thou shouldst find I have as daring spirits in my blood As thou or any of thy race e'er boasted; And though no gaudy titles grac'd my birth, Yet heav'n that made me honest, made me more Than ever king did, when he made a lord. _Lord H._ Insolent villain! henceforth let this teach thee [_draws, and strikes him._ The distance 'twixt a peasant and a prince. _Dum._ Nay then, my lord, [_drawing_] learn you by this, how well An arm resolv'd can guard its master's life. [_they fight; Dumont disarms Lord Hastings._ _Lord H._ Confusion! baffled by a base-born hind! _Dum._ Now, haughty sir, where is our difference now? Your life is in my hand, and did not honour, The gentleness of blood, and inborn virtue, (Howe'er unworthy I may seem to you,) Plead in my bosom, I should take the forfeit. But wear your sword again; and know, a lord, Oppos'd against a man, is but a man. _Lord H._ Curse on my failing hand! your better fortune Has giv'n you 'vantage o'er me; but perhaps Your triumph may be bought with dear repentance. [_exit._ _Re-enter Jane Shore._ _Jane S._ Alas! what have you done? Know ye the pow'r, The mightiness, that waits upon this lord? _Dum._ Fear not, my worthiest mistress; 'tis a cause In which heaven's guards shall wait you. O pursue, Pursue, the sacred counsels of your soul, Which urge you on to virtue; Assisting angels shall conduct your steps, Bring you to bliss, and crown your days with peace. _Jane S._ O that my head were laid, my sad eyes clos'd, And my cold corse wound in my shroud to rest! My painful heart will never cease to beat, Will never know a moment's peace, till then. _Dum._ Would you he happy, leave this fatal place; Fly from the court's pernicious neighbourhood; Where innocence is sham'd, and blushing modesty Is made the scorner's jest; where hate, deceit, And deadly ruin, wear the masks of beauty, And draw deluded fools with shows of pleasure. _Jane S._ Where should I fly, thus helpless and forlorn, Of friends and all the means of life bereft? _Dum._ Belmour, whose friendly care still wakes to serve you, Has found you out a little peaceful refuge, Far from the court and the tumultuous city. Within an ancient forest's ample verge, There stands a lonely but a healthful dwelling, Built for convenience and the use of life: Around it, fallows, meads, and pastures fair, A little garden, and a limpid brook, By nature's own contrivance seem'd dispos'd; No neighbours, but a few poor simple clowns, Honest and true, with a well-meaning priest: No faction, or domestic fury's rage, Did e'er disturb the quiet of that place, When the contending nobles shook the land With York and Lancaster's disputed sway. Your virtue there may find a safe retreat From the insulting pow'rs of wicked greatness.